


bend me, shape me, any way you want me

by jojiberries



Category: IDubbbzTV - Fandom, Maxmoefoe - Fandom, The Filthy Frank Show (Web Series), Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: IDubbbzTV - Freeform, M/M, Max is a dickhead, Yoga instructor!Max, cancer crew - Freeform, ian's a stressed boi, maxian, slight jojimax if u SQUINT, we love him tho, yoga au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojiberries/pseuds/jojiberries
Summary: au where ian is sent to a blokes' yoga class and his instructor max is beautiful. don't tell ian, though, he hasn't figured that out yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi boys this is my first ao3 fic (& my 1st cancer crew fic) so pls be nice i'm trying my best  
> i've rated it mature 4 now b/c there might be mature scenes in later chapters?? ;) stay tuned lads
> 
> also pls check out my gf baebel!! she writes cancer crew too and i love her <3
> 
> pls leave comments & kudos, theyre greatly appreciated! wowie
> 
> (you guys can follow me on tumblr i'm joji-berries if u wanna yell at me abt these boys)

“No.” Ian said, and the words shook through him. Dr Siobhan just looked at him with dead eyes. Probably because she was dead. Ian’s GP actually was a zombie, and today she finally proved herself.  
“Yoga is very beneficial, Mr Carter,” she said, in that fake voice that suggests she’s some sadomasochistic freak who enjoyed watching Ian suffer. “There’s no need to feel ashamed of doing it. It’s not just for women.”  
“I know that.” Because Ian did. He just didn’t particularly fancy telling his mates that he’s started doing meditation, is all. No fragile masculinity here. “Are you sure there’s no superhuman drugs I can take instead?”  
Dr Siobhan actually began to look a bit pissed off. Well, she should be. “It’s a stress headache, Mr Carter. There’s not much else I can do. Doing yoga will help you sleep easier and concentrate more. Here-” she slid a pamphlet off her desk and slotted it into Ian’s hands. “There’s a men’s-only Evening Hatha class.”  
“I told you I don’t care about the men’s-”  
Dr Siobhan checked her watch. “That’s our appointment up, Mr Carter. Please check in with me after a month to see how you’re going.”  
Ian crumpled the pamphlet in his fist. “Yeah, alright.” He might’ve had a bit of a childish stomp on the way out, too, but that’s his business.

...

Ian doesn’t ring up the yoga place. He pinned it to his fridge so he’d have to see it whenever he opened it for a beer, and each time he did he thought of punching in the numbers, but he didn’t.  
Until Thursday, two weeks from the appointment with Dr Siobhan. Ian hadn’t slept - it was seven in the morning and although his eyes were about ready to throw in the towel his dumb brain was still going, if only motivated by spite. He opened the fridge door, initially in search of milk (there’s nothing more therapeutic than a good old chug out of the carton) but settled on a beer. He was a day-drinker now, apparently. When he shut the door it made a small sound, and he was face to face with the pamphlet. It almost appeared to tease him.  
Men’s Evening Hatha General Class - Call Max  
\- And then a number. They open at 8am. Ian, running on the type of cocktail only sleep deprivation and utter dread can serve up, put the number in his phone, and waited an hour. 

...

It was Friday and Ian was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie he got from his mate’s concert last month. He’d originally thought this to be appropriate clothing for some light exercise but as he stood at the entrance of the gym, he watched pretentious wanker after pretentious wanker filter in. They were dressed as if they were competing in the Olympics - most of them even had their own yoga mats which they carried over their shoulders like surfboards. A few guys had their hands clasped around bottles of flavoured vitamin water. Fuckin’ faggots. Ian was alright with his diet Coke.  
The last guy to walk in was someone dressed somewhat similarly to Ian - a man not too much younger than him, with messy brown hair pulled back into a shitty ponytail, wearing a pair of very obviously Kmart trackies and a black t-shirt. On second account, Ian noticed it was a different pattern of the same merch he was wearing. The man wasn’t overly muscly like the others, but he wasn’t nearly as much of a twig as Ian was. He was quite attractive, but Ian wasn’t ready to acknowledge that. 

...

The class began and the stupid hipster men (who probably drank out of those...what are they called? The mugs shaped like goat horns) took their places on their designer mats, swigging from their vitamin waters. Ian took his place with a mat from the gym’s supply near the back of the room. He noticed everyone else standing with their feet shoulder width apart, so that’s what he did.  
The man from earlier walked in, and stood in front of the class. The little niggling thought Ian had before came back and insisted that this man was really incredibly attractive, but he pushed it back down. Maybe later.  


...

The class began and the stupid hipster men (who probably drank out of those...what are they called? The mugs shaped like goat horns) took their places on their designer mats, swigging from their vitamin waters. Ian took his place with a mat from the gym’s supply near the back of the room. He noticed everyone else standing with their feet shoulder width apart, so that’s what he did.  
The man from earlier walked in, and stood in front of the class. The little niggling thought Ian had before came back and insisted that this man was really incredibly attractive, but he pushed it back down. Maybe later.  
“Alright,” said the man, and immediately Ian recognised his voice from over the phone. Australian, except drunk, and also angry. “Welcome to Bloke’s Yoga, boys. I’m your instructor, Max. For the next few weeks I’ll be taking you through some strictly blokes-only yoga poses. Such as the one you do when you need a piss but you’ve got morning wood.” There was a chuckle amongst the class. Ian would have said a ‘giggle’ but that wasn’t masculine enough for this lot. “I believe that one’s called the ‘Superman’. Anyway, boys, get on all fours. God, I love saying that.”  
Ian liked this guy. Max. The name fitted his nature - grossly bombastic, confident he can make you laugh.  
Max, as it turned out, was a funny guy. Ian suspected he was the class clown in both elementary and high school. The man next to Ian, who had a really atrocious goatee, struggled to move his legs apart to go into a Warrior pose. Max came along to help, and placed his hands on either side of the man’s thighs. “That’s right, spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” Ian hacked up a laugh masked as a cough as the poor guy’s face turned steadily purple. Later, when the class was being led through the horse pose (essentially a squat, but with prayer hands) Max guided them with the advice: “Boys, be sure to extend your buttocks.” (another chuckle) “I’d love to say ‘spread your arse cheeks’ but I think we’d all agree that’d turn it into a Hot Yoga session, yeah? And that’s at least another thirty bucks.”  
All in all, Ian was having an okay time. He was laughing intermittently and he’d only almost dislocated something once. That was, until the Downward Dog. Max walked the class through it step by step. Ian managed to get from the all-fours position to having both hands on the ground in front of him while his bum’s in the air. He wouldn’t lie, it was a strange position for him to be in. He just couldn’t get his knees to bend. His breathing completely stopped, though, when he heard footsteps come up behind him.  
Soft hands came and held his hips. “Hey, skinny fucker,” said an Australian voice.  
Ian panicked. “You tryna’ fuck me, faggot?”  
The other students looked at him weirdly and then went on with their business. Ian wanted to die.  
Of course, Max had to giggle. That one, Ian was fairly certain was a giggle. “I’ll buy you a drink first, mate. Your back’s not bent enough, though. I take it you’re not doing the doggy often?”  
“Fuck off,” Ian spat, biting back laughter.  
“Move your hips back,” Max’s gentle guiding pushed Ian’s hips back towards the Australian, and Ian let his back relax. “There you go, darlin’. What’s your name?”  
“Ian.” Ian just remembered he had to breathe. That was how being a human worked, right?  
“I’m Max, but I’m guessing you already knew that. Nice jumper. You go to the Joji concert?”  
“Er, yeah, he’s my mate.” Ian shrugged. Well, as much as he could in his current standing.  
“Aww, no way! Dude, that’s awesome.” Max said, smiling ear to ear. It was kind of Joker-y, really. He lowered his voice, “Look, I know I’m being a bit of an arsehole here, but I don’t reckon you could get me to meet him, could you?”  
Ian wanted to go home. Why did he leave the house. His knees fucking ache. “Sure, I’ll ask. Um, can I stop- Can I stop doing the pose now?”  
“Oh, fuck. Yeah, of course.”  
Ian collapsed face-first on the yoga mat. He was certain this would hurt like hell tomorrow. 

It did.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you trying to set me up with him, asswipe?”  
> “Yes.” Joji said. “Or you could hang out as dudes. That’s always an option.”   
> “That’s true.” Ian acknowledged. “Yeah, just as dudes.”   
> Joji raised a joint at Ian, who raised a cigarette in return. “To dudes.”

“Dunno’, dude, that sounds kinda gay.”   
Ian flicked some ash back at his, frankly rude, friend. “Shut up, that’s just what he said to me.”  
“You said he called you ‘darling’.” Said Joji, as if making case and point.   
“He called another guy in the class ‘sweetheart’. Maybe he’s just one of those guys who pet-names everyone. Like those girls who kiss everyone on the mouth.”  
Joji nodded. “I love those girls.”  
“Assuming of course that you like girls.” Ian retorted, which earned him a slap on the arm. “Anyway, Max wanted to meet you.”  
Joji tossed his hair. “I am a rockstar, after all.” Ian went to elbow him, but Joji thought quickly and intercepted him. “Wait, I just had an idea. Maybe you two could go out under the guise of meeting me and I could drop in and say hi!”  
“Are you trying to set me up with him, asswipe?”  
“Yes,” Joji said. “Or you could hang out as dudes. That’s always an option.”   
“That’s true.” Ian acknowledged. “Yeah, just as dudes.”   
Joji raised a joint at Ian, who raised a cigarette in return. “To dudes.”

...

The next class Ian attended had the pretense of asking Max on a dude-date (Ian was planning on taking him up on his drinks offer) looming over him the entire time. He struggled through the poses but eventually, his spine froze up during the Pigeon. Max sat cross-legged next to him.   
“You doing okay, darlin’?”  
Ian cracked a nervous smile. “Yeah, just a bit - tense.”   
“I can help with that,” Max said, and Ian had Deja-vous back to a really badly produced porno he watched ages ago. Instead of doing what the guy did in the porn, Max placed his stupidly soft hands either side of Ian’s stomach and pushed him down until his chest was on the floor. He then guided his knee to bend and his toes to point. “There you are.”  
“Thanks,” Ian said, a bit out of breath from being manhandled so carefully. He started to say a word, then stopped.   
“What’d you say, mate?”  
“Er, nothing,” Ian said and watched as Max’s lower body walked away from him. Fuck.   
“Right, boys,” said Max from the front of the class. “Backs against the wall. We’re gonna do a shoulder stand. Very nifty move in the bedroom, might I say.”

...

“You didn’t ask him?”  
“Shut up, fucken’ Jap. I’ll get it next time.”

...

Ian hadn’t always been this defensive of his identity. There was, believe it or not, once a time where he was quite open-minded, especially in the area of sexuality. When he was nineteen, on New Year’s day, he had an epiphany. He was still young, he thought, but soon enough he’ll be too old to experiment. He should do it now, if ever.   
So he did.   
And the data was very conclusive.   
Boys were… nice. So were girls, but boys especially. Ian liked them a bit rough around the edges but overall fairly gentle. He wasn’t made of glass but he wasn’t made of steel either. Being pushed and pulled around was… good. Pushing and pulling others around… also good. Also, he really liked getting stubble burn. Like, from, for example, the stubble his damn yoga instructor had.

...

It was a Friday again and the class started at 6 pm and Ian was standing in front of his mirror at 5:55 pm. It was a full-length mirror, and he saw his whole lanky body through it. He wore his usual yoga outfit - the daggy trackies and the sweater - but for some reason, he wanted to look nice. He couldn’t pull off effortless attractiveness like Max could, that was for sure, but maybe if he tried a bit harder in his appearance he too could look… acceptable.   
“George!” He called down the hall. He heard a rustle.   
“Yeah, asshole?” Joji called back.  
“I need to borrow a shirt.”  
Joji wolf-whistled. “You want to look good for yoga boy?”  
“‘Fuck up, cunt.”

...

Standing on his yoga mat, Ian realised that combing his hair may have taken it a bit too far. Joji’s dumb aesthetic Hiragana shirt looked out of place on Ian’s white ass. What if Max noticed? At least Ian had his trackies, which at this point were his last vital components of personality. As soon as the class started, Max came up to Ian straight away.   
“You get a haircut?” he asked.   
“Nah, I just comb - Yeah, I got it cut.”  
Max smiled. “I like your shirt. What does it say?”  
“Um,” Ian looked down. God, he has no idea. “Probably ‘I eat ass’ or something.”  
“Wow,” Max laughed, “That must get all the girls.”  
“It is the world’s best pick-up line,” Ian felt himself blushing.   
Max announced the next pose to the class and aided Ian into it, despite the American being perfectly capable himself. Ian once again felt Max’s hands on his shoulders, hips, stomach, knees. Pushing and pulling him into position. (He wouldn’t get a boner about this - he wasn’t nineteen anymore. However he was very sexually frustrated and Max was hot, so maybe. Oh, God, Ian fucking hoped not.)  
Max backed away slightly, and in almost a whisper, said, “Ian, was it?” Ian nodded. “This is probably unprofessional somehow but I’m way past giving a shit, so, would you want to hang out after class? Drinks on me, dude.”   
Ian was torn between wanting to die instantly or wanting to do a happy dance. He cultivated these feelings into a snarky response: “I don’t know, man, how well does being a Yoga Instructor pay?”   
Max smirked. “I assure you it’s very rewarding.” He patted Ian on the shoulder and went back to the class, where he told everyone to “We want post-nut levels of tense-ness in our muscles, boys. That means absolutely fucking none.”

...

After the class, Max helped Ian put away his equipment. There was an acute silence following the vacation of the room, and Ian felt a rising sense of anxiety. His muscles were all tensing up again. As the two men were transporting a few mats, Max broke the silence. “You ever fucked someone on a yoga mat?”  
‘Pffffftgght’ was the approximate noise Ian made. “Uh, no? Have… have you?”  
Max shrugged. “I told you being a yoga instructor was rewarding.”   
Ian put down the mat so as to give Max a congratulatory high-five and pointedly didn’t mention the fact that Max exclusively only instructed men’s classes. 

...


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max proves himself to be pointedly uninterested in the clean-eating, mindfulness lifestyle. Also Ian's crush is getting way out of hand.   
> (also idk how to add a chapter note b/c i'm dumb but thank you so much for the support this has been gettin! i was fully expecting to be lost in the sea of fic, but you guys have shown nothing but positivity! hugs for everyone!  
> also also, i've seen a few ppl ask if this story's going to be continued and i reckon that's b/c the story's marked as completed. again idk how to change that but it ain't completed lmao)

The pub Max chose was one of the ones with booths, so naturally, Ian gravitated there. He picked out one underneath a window. He felt a bit weird sitting in a bar wearing sweatpants, but honestly, he figured he’d be just as uncomfortable wearing jeans. Max offered to go up and buy drinks, and Ian didn’t look at Max’s ass on his way. He took out his phone and chucked a text Joji’s way. 

He’s buying me a drink????   
Joji’s reply was instantaneous. thats gay :/  
Shut up. How do I know if it’s a dude-date or a date-date?  
god u sound like a fkn 15 yr old girl dude  
has he been flirtin w/ u?  
I don’t know  
how do you not know??? >:(

Max slid back into the booth and placed the tray of drinks down on the (slightly rickety) table. “Yours is the pint, mine’s the Long Island tea.” Ian smiled, thanked him, and reached for his sweating glass when his phone’s screen lit up. Max leaned over and looked. “Who’s ‘Weeaboo Cunt’?” Max asked.   
“That’s my friend,” Ian panicked and collected his phone. The message was ‘idk dude gl ,hope u get yr dicc wet xoxo’, which, thanks a bunch Joji. Max didn’t ask any further questions, and Ian can only be thankful.   
“How long have you been living in Australia?” Max asked through a curly straw.   
“Three years, now,” Ian said.   
“Why’d you move?”  
Ian shrugged. “I’d been here a few times on vacation, so I sort of knew what I was in for. Life wasn’t really...going anywhere back in LA. I didn’t have any anchors. I thought, ‘why not’.”  
Max smiled. “Bit impulsive, are we?”  
Ian blushed, “Yeah, I suppose. You from Sydney?”  
“Nah, Perth. Came here ‘cos I fell in love, aye.”   
“Oh,” Ian couldn’t stop himself from saying.   
Max chuckled and punched Ian’s shoulder. “I’m not anymore, cunt. I like the city, though, despite it being a total shitfight.”  
Ian tried to think if that was a flirt or an attempt at pity. It was hard to tell sometimes. They fell into a silence, filled only by Max making horrible belches, which were on the surface disgusting but Ian couldn’t help but think them just a little bit cute. His phone buzzed. 

hey faggot which bar u in? i wanna say hi

“Hey, Max,” Ian said, “You said you wanted to meet Joji?”   
Max’s face lit up. “Yeah, man. Why, is he around?”  
“Might be.” Ian said. He felt a little weird corralling his friend to his dude-date-mate, but whatever worked, he guessed. “What got you into yoga instructing?”  
Max’s features split into a grin, “It’s actually a funny one. I never went up to me career’s advisor and said ‘look, mate, I know I look like a bricklayer but - and hear me out - I wanna’ be a yoga instructor’.”  
“I don’t know if you look like a bricklayer.” Ian said. “Plumber, maybe.”  
“I was going to this gym in Perth, though, right. This girl I liked did yoga there. I, of course, did manly shit like kickboxing and heavy cardio. Occasionally a spin class, but we won’t talk about that. One day, there was a poster advertising a position for a yoga instructor. I thought, ‘what a lucky bastard, he gets to go in and tell a bunch of girls in leggings what to do for an hour’, you know. So I applied. Didn’t have no qualifications n’ shit. I did, however, bullshit a fair amount.”  
Ian placed down his drink, thoroughly engrossed. “How so?”  
“I may have told them I’m the co-owner of a mindfulness retreat out the back of Perth. Gave them a fake number ‘n everything. I guess they just never fuckin’ rang it, dude, ‘cos I got the job! I walked in on me first day, yoga mat and trackies I’d bought the night before, you know, all kitted up. They told me I had to do men’s yoga classes, because all the ladies’ ones already had instructors. Needless to say, I was a bit fucked off. I tried to contact the girl, but she wasn’t on Facebook or nothing.”  
“How did you find her?”  
“Asked around at the gym, after about three months I found out she’d moved to Sydney. I thought that moving all the way across the bloody country would have been a bit extreme, but I also had three months’ experience as an apparently qualified yoga instructor. So I requested the gym transfer me, and here we are.”   
Ian blinked. “You never found the girl?”  
“Yeah, nah. Figured I was better off without, anyway.” Max took a large sip of his drink, which was quickly dissipating - there was almost none left. Ian looked at his phone, expecting a ‘i’m out front asshole xo’, but there wasn’t one. 

Where are you, cunt?

Ian was trying really hard not to make blatant assumptions about Max’s sexuality but he was also trying really hard not to grab the Australian by the collar and yell, “ARE YOU GAY OR BI OR WHAT, I CAN’T FUCKING TELL”. What did it matter, Ian asked himself. It wasn’t like he was trying to sleep with the man. Or maybe he was. He hadn’t decided yet.   
They talked about dumb shit - memes, TV, video games, anime, music, all that - for what felt like hours. When Ian checked his - Joji-devoid - phone, he realised it had only been 20 minutes. He felt like he’d been sucked into a wormhole where it was just him and Max, pushing away the silence with each other’s funny anecdotes. Max’s words had begun to slur when he got up in one decidedly not-fluent movement and proclaimed he was going to get another round. When he returned he bore two Long Island iced teas this time. They each had little lemon slices sitting on the rim - a pointless decoration that Ian appreciated.   
Another half hour passed and Max was making less and less sense. Ian himself was feeling the effects, but he didn’t show them outwardly nearly as much. When Ian was drunk, he went quiet, he was more easily irritated, he felt smaller. Max on the other hand, was in the middle of a rant about Pokemon Go cheats, flailing his arms like a madman and forming less and less English words the more he spoke. Turns out Max was not only a funny guy but also an extreme lightweight, despite his apparent love for alcohol. During a particularly riveting point in his argument (Ian didn’t know whom he was arguing against) Max stood on the booth’s table. At this point two bar staff rushed over to him and told him he wasn’t allowed any more drinks.   
“This is shiiiit, dude. They always doooooo this.” Max whined, not altogether unlike a child.  
“I’m sure they do, man.” Ian checked his phone again. Stupid fucking best friend, probably had one too many bowls and fell asleep, the cunt. He gave Max a once-over: hair free from its ponytail, it almost touched Max’s shoulders, baggy shirt hanging open around his collarbones, his stubble just faint enough to be noticed. God, he was in deep. “Look, I’ll call you an Uber. Where do you live?”  
Max smirked. Of course, he smirked when he was drunk. “Can we go back to yours?”  
Ian was going to choke on his own spit. Jesus fucking Christ. “Er, yeah.”

Max wiggled around in his seat like a happy little worm. “Woo!”


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joji smiled, and said in a sing-songy way, “Ian has a hard-on for yoga boy!” 
> 
> \- in other words, Max goes home to the Carter/Miller flat. A slow-burning shitfight ensues. 
> 
> (hi it's ya boy thanks so much for all yr cute comments it makes me v happy u guys r 2 nice xoxoxo)  
> (also reminder to check out my geef baebel i love her?)

Ian wasn’t too sure why, exactly, but Max insisted on pushing the buttons on the elevator to his apartment. Max bounded up to the sliding doors and yelled, slurring words (if you could call them words): “I’M PRESSING THE FUCKING BUTTONS, CUNT!” It was an outburst of an odd childish energy that fit so well with Max’s demeanor - he was an overgrown toddler, stumbling around and asking Ian to watch and praise everything he did. Ian had a strange urge to protect him, but at the same time he wanted to keep pushing Max, see how wrecked he could get. 

While Max was making funny faces in the elevator mirror, he chucked a text to his dumb housemate.   
Drunk Aussie hunk incoming

threesome? ;0   
Replied Joji, and Ian smirked at his phone. 

“Whatcha laughing at, bitch?” Max said, and the elevator ground to a halt. The two men stepped out, Max bracing a preliminary hand on the wall. 

“Nothing,” Ian shrugged. “You want some tea? Australians like tea, don’t they?” Max just sort of looked blankly at him. “Coffee? No. I have apple juice -”

“You got any grog?” Max asked. It may have taken Ian more than a few seconds to deduce what the fuck the man was saying, but he got there eventually. 

“Oh, we’ve...probably got some beer…” He said, fully aware of how much beer he had (which was a lot). Max fist-pumped the air. 

…

Ian sat at one end of the couch, quietly sipping on a can of beer, watching a weird ritual unfold in front of him. Immediately as Max entered the apartment, he spotted the resident musician pressing keys on a cheap keyboard on the floor and collapsed next to him. Joji was bombarded with questions, poor attempts at initiating a friendship, wayward compliments like “how do you think of this stuff? It’s like, almost cliche. Except it isn’t,” and Joji’s reply being, “you know the two-minute refractory period after you come where you can feel every emotion at once? That’s my lyrics.”  
Max would blush and hide his face, letting Joji carry on composing melodies in the key of F minor. 

It was stupid, Ian knew, but Max was supposed to be making him blush. He needed to step in and tell the Japanese wanker to fuck off and go take a cold shower, but he wasn’t sure where the best point of entry would be. He distracted himself wondering where the night could’ve gone if Joji wasn’t home. If he’d taken Max home by himself. Which in hindsight was a bad idea, because soon enough somebody whacked a pillow at his crotch. 

“Yo, fag,” Joji chastised him, knowing full well what’s going on. “You getting a chub?”

“Fuck off,” Ian spat, trying to avoid Max’s blown-out eyes. 

“Housewife,” Max regarded, and Ian almost didn’t realise he was talking to him. “Fetch me another beer, will you?”

“I won’t hesitate to shoulder-stand you in the dick, yoga boy,” Ian defended, however, he did get up and get another drink. Why? He couldn’t tell you. 

“I’d rather you do a downward-dog on my dick,” Ian heard Max say over his shoulder. He also heard Joji giggle, and then the two high-five. It wasn’t by any means a sexy remark, but it may as well have been judging the steady red colouring making its way up Ian’s neck. 

When he returned, he found Joji teaching Max how to play one of his songs. Ian recognised the melody as ‘Demons’, which was one of his favourites. Evidently, it was Max’s too. Joji had his arm around Max’s shoulders, pressing his hand into Max’s own, helping him push the keyboard keys. He was whispering to him: “It’s C, then D Minor... Hey, that’s it. You got it.”

“George!” Ian shouted before he could stop himself. “There’s a cockroach in the kitchen and I need you to kill it. Come here now please.” 

....

Ian shoved Joji into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. “Dude! What the fuck?”

“What?”

“Max is…” Ian began, unsure where he’d finish. He lowered his voice. “Max is mine, man.” Joji started laughing raucously. Because he’s a cunt. “Shut up! He’s gonna’ hear.”

Joji smiled, and said in a sing-songy way, “Ian has a hard-on for yoga boy!” 

Ian kicked him in the shins. Joji shut up. “I’m going to kill you. Please just let me have this.”

There was a silence between the two that they hadn’t shared in a long time. Not since Ian was nineteen. 

“Okay.” Joji nodded. “I wasn’t trying to get in with him. I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You succeeded.”

“And it seems I wasn’t the only one.”

Ian eyed a knife on the counter curiously but decided against it. No, he thought, today was not the day he murdered Joji. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Max calls Ian wifey and there was an attempt at Mario Kart. 
> 
> (hiya it's ya boy letting you know that youre all super nice and tyty for comments n kudos)

5

When Ian re-entered his living room he found a lifeless-looking body limp over the sofa, the only indicator that it was still breathing was the fact that it was slowly smoking a cigarette. “Took you cunts long enough,” said the corpse, “You fighting over me or something?”

“We only fight over pretty girls, Max.” Joji said, and promptly excused himself, reasoning that he needed to go to sleep. 

Ian watched as Max’s features fell. Desperately, he wanted to tell Max he was pretty, but there were a lot of lines here that didn’t need to be crossed. And they were all invisible. And Ian wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

“Come on, let’s play a game.” Max suggested. 

“Are we twelve-year-old girls at a sleepover, dude? What were you thinking, Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Ian joked. Between him and...himself, he found the idea of being locked in a wardrobe with Max oddly alluring. 

Max scoffed. “I meant a video game, dipshit. Mario Kart. That kinda thing. You heard of it? Is it too new for you?”

Ian went to elbow Max but he moved. Suppose he was a yoga instructor. “I’m only twenty-six! And I’ll beat your ass at Mario Kart.”

“Bring it on, old man.” 

Ian attempted another elbowing. He landed it that time.

…

Ian ferreted around in his TV cabinet (Joji had picked it up from the side of a highway when they first moved in, it probably had all sorts of bugs and shit in it) looking for Mario Kart, trying to think of the next move he should make. Max was definitely too drunk for Ian to try anything for the first time, that much was clear. But what was the protocol here? What does the guidebook say - does Ian fall back on his earlier offer to call an Uber? Does Max stay the night? Is he allowed to tuck him into the pull-out bed, or is that too gay? Yeah, Ian laughed to himself. Sure, that was the gayest thing he’s done. 

He located the Mario Kart and stood up to notify Max, but the bombastic Australian was suspectly silent. Oh, God, what if he’s passed out? Ian poked gently at Max’s cheek (which was extremely soft but he wasn’t about to think about that now), who stirred, and muttered “‘m too tired. Mario tomorrow.” Ian smiled. The man was truly a testament to his career. 

Ian got Max to organise himself off the couch so he could kick out the bed. Max immediately lay down, curled up like a cat in the cold. Ian swore he heard little purring noises too. Ian found a shitty sweater on the floor that was probably Joji’s (based on the Hello Kitty emblazoned on the front) and draped it over Max’s shoulders. Ian felt like a housewife. He remembered how Max had called him that earlier - he remembered how it had sent chills up his spine. God, he felt like such a fag. He cursed his brain for thinking about attributing ‘housewife’ to himself. 

Max murmured something. 

“What was that?” 

Max coughed. “I said, thanks, wifey.”

This man is going to be the death of Ian. His eyes, wide as saucers, looked over Max a final time. He tried to narrow his thoughts down - yes, Max was beautiful. But did Ian want to have sex with him? Was the appreciation purely aesthetic? Are Ian’s feelings actually completely platonic and he only wants to protect and love Max in a mate kinda way?

The last one’s a stretch, Ian admitted. He’ll deal with the rest later.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian has a dream.
> 
> (hi this is a mature chapter whatwhatwhAT GUYS? i havent written smut in a v v long time so if u need 2 giv me sum advice dont hesitate!!!)  
> (also thanks baebel for helping me out w this im lov u)

Ian knew this was a dream. While he was in it, he felt abstract sensations that didn’t really feel real, and he relished in the ability to push everything else away and just focus on that. He allowed his mind to blank and let the dream take him where it needed to. He ran with the assumption it was just a normal sex dream - it had all the components. The body with him was blurred and unfocused: Ian could never tell who it was. This time they were underneath the covers off his bed, sucking him off like they’ve done it a million times, knowing exactly what he liked and how he liked it. Ian let his hand wander down to the person and tug on their hair - it was a girl, he knew, based on just the sheer amount of it. The hair was soft, long, and Ian twiddled it between his fingers, giving himself a firm grip. 

She was amazing, Ian thought. He tried to tell her so but the words died in his throat. He knew it was a dream - it had to be - but even so, it was probably the best he’d ever gotten. Ian pulled on her hair a bit tighter, giving her a gentle warning.   
To his delight, she didn’t slow down or pull off like he’d expected. He yanked at her hair harder - ‘I’m too close, I’m going to -’ 

And then she stopped. All the air trapped in Ian’s over-anxious chest left his body, he felt peaceful, his beehive of a head had quietened down, if only for a few seconds. Ian wasn’t sure he knew ‘bliss’ meant but he knew what this was, and it was the next best thing. He watched with half-lidded eyes as her head and shoulders moved under the covers - he was starting to get his breath back, almost ready to wrap her in his arms and maybe reciprocate the favour. Her hair blossomed from under the covers - a dark hazelnut sort of colour, just catching the light from the window. 

It was then that Ian noticed the stubble that scratched his thigh. 

The girl smiled sleepily at Ian, and he didn’t smile back because she wasn’t a girl at all. 

She was his fucking yoga instructor.


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Joji have a chat. 
> 
> (hi sorry havent updated, been back @ school  
> this has been edited by the love of my life @baebel   
> look out 4 smut in later chapters?? what am i doing)

It was the next morning. Afternoon, really - Ian didn’t particularly want to think about it, if he’s honest. Every time he glanced at the disheveled boy in the elevator in front of him, he couldn’t help but imagine his head between his thighs. He swallowed his pride and waved goodbye. 

Max scratched the back of his head, and Ian could see the line of muscle that went down the Australian’s bicep. “Had a good time last night,” Max said, and mid-yawn, he caught Ian’s useless, gay eyes roaming over him. “You checking me out, dickhead?”

“Er…” It occured to Ian that he could well flirt back. But there was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go down. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was rendered utterly speechless. Max didn’t take any notice of this. He waved with a lazy hand and pushed the elevator button. Ian watched it sink into the floor - and his heart went with it. 

That was pretty fucking gay. 

…

Joji passed Ian in the hallway, observing the frantic combing that was happening for a second or two before offering, “Did you wanna borrow my shirt again?”

Ian looked at him strangely. “George, I need to level with you.”

Joji’s eyebrows raised, and it took a moment or two for him to slide out of his dumb sarcastic jokes headspace and realise it was time to be serious. Eventually, his features settled. “Yeah, what?”

Ian sighed, perhaps dramatically. He thinks he’s allowed to be dramatic. “I know you’re going to laugh at this. But answer this question honestly.”

“Ian? You feeling okay?” Joji pressed the back of his hand to Ian’s head, the other boy swatting his hand away. 

He breathed in for longer than he needed to. “When was the last time you had a sex dream?”

....

“Shut up!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it, is all. I thought you’d discovered a reason to kick me out of the apartment or something.” Joji grinned. Ian stared at him. “Uh, not that there is any reason.”

“You’re a prick.” Ian said, “And answer the question, faggot.”

In a turn of events Ian could only describe as completely unsurprising, Joji immediately replied: “Probably when I had a nap earlier. I dunno’, I can’t remember my dreams. Why are you asking me?”

Ian tried his best not to blush but it was difficult with brown eyes boring into him. One day, he had to take a brave step and tell his best friend (appointed via lack of a more attractive offer). “Do you remember when I was nineteen?” Joji nodded. “I decided I may have been into, uh. Men.” 

“Yes, Ian, I actually remember being on the receiving end of that conversation.”

“This is hard for me, dickhead.” Ian allowed himself to smile. It was a truncated, tiny upwards lift of his lip. “I didn’t want to admit it was possible. I couldn’t have.. I’d lived my whole life thinking I liked women and women only. I didn’t want that to change.”

“It can change, man-”

Ian had started, now, and to stop would be more difficult. “I ignored it.”

“I know.”

The atmosphere had become sullen. Ian and Joji looked at each other for a few laborious seconds, feeling the weight of each other’s stares, making no move to break it. “George. Max… he’s…”

Joji coughed. “Look,” he said slowly. “Ian, I really want to be here for you. I want to be a good friend more than anything. I also want to take the piss out of you for having a bullshit yoga kink.”

Ian smiled for real that time. “By all means.”

There was silence, and then Joji cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled: “IAN WANTS YOGA BOY TO FUCK HIM ON A FOAM MAT!” 

“Hell yeah, I do.”

It felt good to say. Ian saw Joji’s contagious smile, and his chest lifted - everything seemed a bit lighter. Ian allowed his housemate to get him a better shirt (if only slightly better than Ian’s own) and looked at himself in the hallway mirror. 

He’s fucking gay. 

And he was not going to think about Max’s blossoming hazelnut hair at yoga class.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, the last straw shouldn't have been so dramatic.
> 
> ((hi this is the last chapter of unbearable tension before th Good Bit WAtch OUT))  
> ((again edited by the girl of my dreams @baebel))

Ian walked into the class and saw the usual suspects - the man-bun, the designer yoga mat, the guy wearing obnoxious Yeezys. Ian had to admit to himself he didn’t know a whole lot about shoes designed by hip-hop artists but he was fairly sure. He’d have to ask Joji later. 

A new face came through the door. He was sort of a large guy, with long hair tied back about halfway up his head. He wore a white sleeveless shirt, through which Ian could see his tattoos - one that said: “Game over”. Immediately, Max rushed over to him, pouring affection in his direction. Ian grit his teeth. Whatever, he thought. He was at a yoga class. He had to relax. He could talk to Max later. 

Except he didn’t relax. Max stayed with the new guy the whole time, pushing his arms above his head or pulling his knees down, hardly paying any attention at all to the rest of the class. Every new pose Max announced was done so over his shoulder. The new guy didn’t seem bothered at all - he didn’t enjoy Max’s doting nor did he dislike it. Ian’s teeth may as well have been ground to dust at that point. But he was determined to relax. Nothing was more unattractive than desperation. 

The last straw, in hindsight, shouldn’t have been so dramatic. 

The class was in the middle of going from a child’s pose to a downward-facing dog (golly, Ian’s favourite), when Max went over to the new guy and placed his hands either side of the man’s hips, lifting him slightly. A little exchange happened between them that left them both giggling. Ian held the pose for as long as he could, until his calves strained and his thighs ached. Until he had a twinge in his neck from looking behind him at that stupid Australian boy and his hazelnut hair. Max placed his hand just in the small of the guy’s back, and looked directly up at Ian across the room, underneath his curls. 

For some reason, God knows why that was it. Ian flashed back to his dream, where Max had made the exact same face as he came up for air after giving Ian the best head of his life. 

Ian’s arm gave out, and he fell onto his mat. 

…

Max quickly escorted the other students out, lingering with the new guy, calling him darlin’ and making sweeping hand gestures, before rushing over to Ian. Ian was sitting cross-legged, drinking from his water bottle. He’d have to quit this class, he thought. The whole rigmarole was giving him more stress headaches than it was supposed to solve. His stupid brain couldn’t stop thinking about Max’s hair, though, which was unhelpful. It just looked so soft - Ian wanted to rip it out. When he saw Max coming he rearranged his sweatpants and crossed his legs over again. 

“Hey man, you doing okay? You seemed really tense tonight.” Max said, all loving and gentle. He went to touch Ian’s knee, but he flinched away. “Ian, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I just,” Ian could smell Max’s hair. It fell around his neck, feminine and silky. He hadn’t bothered to tie it up. Ian needed his dick to stop thinking that was such a nice idea. “I have a headache.”

“Aww, poor wifey,” Max smiled. The pet name was what got him - Ian was hard, and no amount of ‘think of my grandma naked’ could fix that. All he could see, hear, and smell was Max, and he fucking loved it. Ian coughed, and Max’s hand landed on his lower back, soothing him. Oh, God. Ian couldn’t get up now - he didn’t want to risk Max seeing him. But he couldn’t stay sitting forever either. Max noticed his shortness of breath, and let the hand on Ian’s back rest on his right hip. “Your eyes are all wide, dude. You stoned or somethin’?”

God, Max’s lips were so close. Ian laughed nervously. “No, I just…” There he was, distracted by Max’s pink lips again. 

Max just smirked at him, almost mockingly. There was a dead silent few seconds between them.   
Then Max reached his thumb around from Ian’s hipbone to closer to his lower stomach. Ian didn’t say anything - maybe this was another dream, and if it was, he’d rather die than stop it going where he thinks it’s going. The hand crawled ever so slowly until Max’s palm rested on Ian’s inner thigh. He looked at Ian, with big eyes. “Do you want this?” He asked. 

Ian didn’t think he’d ever said ‘yes’ so fast in his life.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max dipped his fingers under the waistband of Ian's sweatpants.   
> Finally. 
> 
> (hiya sorry haven't updated but here ya gal is, hittin ya w double chapters! edited by @baebel whom i love and cherish. comments & kudos are v appreciated!)

Max was kissing him. Unlike the hand that was resting on the small of his back, it wasn’t gentle at all - it was almost drunk in nature, sloppy and forceful, like Max was trying to… for lack of a better word, dominate him. Ian’s fucked if that was going to happen. He acted upon instinct and grabbed a handful of Max’s hair. It was just as soft as it looked - maybe more so. Max’s wandering hand circled around Ian’s thighs and back to his stomach. He may have had to take back his statement about desperation being unattractive, because he was about to scream if Max didn’t stick his hand down his pants. 

Ian pulled himself away. “Max,” he gasped. “Please.”

Max pressed the heel of his palm into Ian’s bulge and smiled when Ian’s hips jerked up to meet him, the American’s eyes screwing shut. “What do you want me to do?” 

Strangely, it was the most earnest thing Ian had heard Max say. “Anything,” Ian said, short of breath, and sighed when Max dipped his fingers under the waistband of Ian’s sweatpants. Finally.   
“Anything?”

Ian smiled, “I mean, within reason. Don’t, like, piss on me.” Instantly, Max’s hand was gone. Ian whined, long and low. He panted, “Max?”

Max stood and offered a hand to Ian. “Come here, you gay retard.”

“Thanks, wifey,” Ian retaliated, and took Max’s hand. When they stood, Ian saw just how messed up he made Max’s hair, and he was proud - he wanted to make it worse. 

Max grabbed both sides of Ian’s face and kissed him, hard. “No,” he said, “You’re definitely the wifey here.”

…

The two of them more or less fell into the storeroom. Max backed Ian up on a metre-high pile of yoga mats. “Legs up,” he said, like a command, and Ian complied, crossing his ankles under Max’s scapula. Being treated so roughly sent chills down his spine, into his cock. Max took Ian’s sweats off and deposited them on the ground, pulling his boxers along with it. The cool air hit Ian and he shivered, partly because of the cold and partly in anticipation. Ian watched with wide eyes as Max wrapped his hand around him, stroking clumsily at first but finding a rhythm. Ian couldn’t remember the last time someone (who wasn’t part of a dream) could make him feel this good. He shut his eyes so tight he saw fireworks, and let out little ‘ah’, ‘ahhh’s through an o-shaped mouth. Max’s mouth came crashing down on his, and Max kept jerking Ian off until he was a babbling mess, breathing hot through the other boy’s lips. 

Ian’s phone went off from his pile of discarded clothing. Max disappeared again, and when Ian opened his eyes he found him looking at his phone.   
Max was grinning something chronic. “What?” Ian asked between heavy breaths. 

“‘New message from Weeaboo Cunt: gl on dicking down yoga boy.’” Max read aloud. Ian let his head fall against the wall. “How long have you wanted to fuck me?”

“Since I saw you, fuck, Max, please do something.” Ian groaned. How dare Max stand around not touching him, looking all pretty and shit. Max gave in and kissed Ian’s neck, resuming his hand around his cock, pulling and squeezing and - oh, God, how was he so good at this?

“Do you want to fuck me, Ian?” Max said into Ian’s collarbone.

“Stop interrogating me, cunt,” Ian replied, allowing his hips to buck up into Max’s fist. He was getting embarrassingly close but he couldn’t care - he only needed release. Max bit down. Ian moaned then, perhaps too loudly. 

“Someone’s a bit mouthy,” Max said, teasing. “That’s okay. I like mouthy.”

Ian forgot how to breathe. “Max.”

“Yes, darlin’?” 

“I’m gonna -” Ian started saying, and Max gave him a particularly hard squeeze. “Oh, shit. I’m gonna come.”

“Go on then,” Max said, and Ian felt Max’s hand leave him. He was about to whinge again when it was replaced with a warm (maybe too warm) heat that encompassed him. He looked down his body to see Max staring up at him through his curls, his lips stretched around Ian’s cock. 

He came harder than he ever remembered. Max didn’t take his mouth off him until Ian had stopped writhing, which was maybe thirty seconds. Max must’ve fucked Ian’s brains out, because he couldn’t form a single thought. Everything was Max and he loved it. Max wiped his mouth on the leg of Ian’s trackies, and gave Ian his phone back. 

“Well,” Max said, his voice deliciously hoarse. “Update your little friend. I’m sure he’s dying to know.”

“Fuck you,” Ian managed to spit back. He shook his head, trying to find his remaining brain cells. “Do you want… I mean, are you okay..?” He gazed pointedly down at the bulge in Max’s own trackpants. 

Max looked surprised, like he was so busy making Ian feel good he’d forgotten about himself. He pushed the hem of his pants down, just enough to take his cock out. It was obvious he was putting on a show, and Ian was loving it. Max spat into his palm and jerked himself off slowly, painstakingly so. Ian watched as Max’s cock filled, he found himself aching for it. He wanted it in his hand, he wanted it in his mouth, he wanted it every way possible. Max kept stroking himself until the head of his cock brushed the hairs on his lower stomach, curving upwards in a way Ian found weirdly cute, and then he let himself go. 

“If you want to see the rest of that we have to go somewhere other than a motherfucking storage unit,” Max said, pulling his trackies up. He wiped his hand on a mat, and Ian prayed for the next person who’d do a tree pose on it. 

“Did you just fucking clickbait me on your dick?”


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Should we take this to the bedroom?” Max said, “Or did you want to get railed on the back of your door?”
> 
> “Bed,” Ian said, his chest heaving. “Seems like a pretty good idea.”
> 
> (y'all it's getting steamy in here and ya girl doesn't really know how peni work   
> pray for me  
> edited by @baebel whom owns my heart  
> comment and kudos loveys!!)

They decided amicably to take an Uber back to Ian’s place, and Ian sent a flurry of panicked text messages to his least favourite weeaboo, who pointedly did not reply to a single one of them. Max made the good-natured but incredibly frustrating resolution to take the front seat while Ian suffered alone in the back. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Max had been so forceful with him - the way he manhandled him. It was intoxicating. So many parts of Max contrasted beautifully with other parts of him, and Ian loved it. 

Max. Ian remembered the shape of Max’s cock, curved upwards, a blush-colour that matched his cheeks. It was cute, he had to admit, in the sort of way that made him want to choke on it.   
Was that too gay? Yeah, probably. 

They pulled up to Ian’s apartment complex and practically sprinted to the elevator. There was a moment of blissful silence wherein Ian caught his reflection in the mirror. Hair messed up every which way, shirt untucked, a little bite mark slowly bruising up the junction of his neck. Whoever this was, Ian thought, he’d never seen him before. But he’d like to see a lot more of him - if not simply because this was the wreck Max and Max alone made him. 

Ian opened the door and immediately Max had him crowded up against it, his lips pushing more than kissing Ian’s own. Max wrapped a large hand around the angle of Ian’s hip, and when Ian gasped into his open mouth, he pressed his fingers so hard into Ian’s skin he was sure he’d have marks. Now that was a nice thought. Being all marked up - because of what Max was doing to him. Max pulled away from him with a grin to put all grins to shame, and Ian’s gay little heart fluttered at Max being so happy. 

“Should we take this to the bedroom?” Max said, “Or did you want to get railed on the back of your door?”

“Bed,” Ian said, his chest heaving. “Seems like a pretty good idea.”

After the cursory look around the apartment for the local sad musician came up empty, Ian let himself be dragged by the wrist down the hall. Max practically threw him on the bed, and Ian bounced a bit, starting to take his shirt off as Max took his off too. Seeing Max’s chest for the first time was a holy experience - all the ridges and curves and edges and - fuck, Ian was in deep. 

“You gonna keep staring at me or?”

Ian cleared his throat. “Don’t feel like you have to stop undressing, but I’ve only really -” Max slid his sweats off his long legs and kicked them somewhere, letting his boxers go with them. “Not gone too far with a guy before, and I don’t -” Max sat next to Ian and helped him take the rest of his clothes off, Ian being pliant. “I don’t know how this works.”

“I’ll break it down simple for you, darlin’.” Max kissed Ian, just softly, just once. His hand fell from Ian’s hard chest to his stomach, and down further. “I’m going to fuck you. Is that okay?”

Max’s hand wrapped itself around Ian’s cock (which thickened again abnormally quickly ((what the fuck was this Australian boy doing to him?))) and all the air pushed itself out of Ian’s chest in a heavy gasp. “Ah, fuck! Shut up, I mean… how. How are we going to do that?”

Max, the cunt, started jerking him off again. Ian may have only cum less than half an hour ago but he was getting close again. This is all stupid Max’s fault, he thought bitterly. “Well that’s up to you, princess. I could fuck you in Downward-facing dog, you seem pretty good at that.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Ian said, not meaning a syllable.

“Where’s your lube, cunt?” Max said. 

“Uh, top drawer?” Ian replied, and tried to remember the last gay porn he watched and what happened now. He shuddered when he realised, half in anticipation, half in worry. What if it didn’t feel as good as it was supposed to? What if-

“You are thinking way too fucking hard,” Max’s weight shifted the mattress slightly. Ian’s heartbeat a little faster when he saw the lube in Max’s hands. Max’s features softened when he noticed the concern on Ian’s face. “Hey, you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do this, you know, we could watch a DVD or something.”

Ian smiled. This boy was perfect. “No, I do… I’m just nervous, I guess. I promise I do.” 

Max kissed Ian’s cheek. “On all fours, then, darlin’.” Max cooed, so Ian did, the heels of his palms digging into the doughy duvet, his knees sinking. He felt a caressing hand on his upper thighs, and then he heard the uncapping of the lube. Ian breathed in sharply when Max’s finger circled around his asshole. “Hey, relax. I won’t hurt you.” Max said, and Ian really wanted to believe him. 

He felt so vulnerable. 

Too vulnerable. 

“No,” he said, and Max moved away instantly. Ian turned and sat down to face him. “I can’t do this.”


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know what I’m doing, cunt.” He said, but there was a smile. So Ian let himself be helpless again, let Max do what he wanted. 
> 
> ((this is it ya'll it's the last one before the epilogue it's been a wild ride i'd like to thank not only god but jesus  
> thank you @baebel for proofreading i love u mwah))
> 
> (((( friendly reminder yall can follow on tumblr i'm joji-berries)))))

He mostly only phrased it like that to see Max’s pretty face fall. 

“Uh-” Max blushed, capping the lube again, wiping his finger on the bedspread (guess that’s getting washed). “Sure. That’s fine, man.” 

He sounded more than a bit dejected, so Ian elbowed him. “I don’t want to not do anything, faggot. I just… don’t think I’m ready… for this.” He made a vague hand gesture pointed at his ass. The man really did have a way with words. 

Max nodded, “Yeah, of course. What do you want to do?”

In what Ian could only explain as a sudden burst of confidence, he pushed Max down on the bed by his shoulders. He relished in the way Max’s breath hitched and his eyes fluttered. “I could always fuck you? Is that a thing you do?” 

Max sighed, not in an exasperated way, more in an ‘I thought you’d never ask’ way. His speech got slower and his chest rose and fell like waves. “Yes, it’s definitely a thing I do, Ian. I’m very flexible, you see -”

“Don’t fucking say anything about yoga-”

“Being a yoga instructor is very rewarding like that.” Max smiled that stupid smile, and Ian retaliated by grabbing his ass - the Australian gasped sharply. 

“Where’d you put the lube?” Ian almost hissed. This sudden bout of dominance was just what he needed - being manhandled was great and all, but nothing compared to being the one who gave. He got a rush of blood to his lower belly and he wasn’t about to waste it. Max sort of pointed behind him and Ian grabbed the tube. 

“Have you fingered a guy before?” Max asked. 

Ian cringed at the terminology. Surely there was a less crass way to say that. “Well, yeah, I have.” It was in some Brooklyn club toilets about six years ago, Ian thought to himself, but that still counted. He poured some lube onto his fingers, slightly overestimating how much he needed, but he supposed that more was better than less. Max’s back arched and Ian pressed his palm down onto Max’s stomach so that he stilled. Ian held Max’s hip with one hand and let his other fall down to Max’s ass, where he pushed one finger slowly inside. 

Max’s face scrunched up, as if in pain. “You alright?” Ian asked. 

“Oh, shit, yeah. Just keep going.” 

So Ian did, thrusting at a low pace if only to stretch Max out enough. When Max gave the okay he added another finger, and another, until Ian was mesmerised by the way three of his fingers were buried in Max - almost being sucked inside by some powerful force. Ian remembered from last time he did this that the g-spot (or p-spot?) was sort of up a bit, maybe to the side -

“-Oh, fuck!” Max’s arms went flying to the sides of him, gripping the duvet so hard his knuckles started to turn white. A pretty pink blush painted his cheeks, and saliva glossed his lips. “I’m ready, dick,” Max said, nearly biting the words out through clenched teeth. 

“Are you calling me a dick or are you addressing my dick personally?” Ian laughed and took his fingers out. They made an incredibly lewd noise, and Ian felt the shiver down to the base of his spine. He went to line his cock up to Max’s hole, placing one hand on Max’s shoulder. “You’re pretty like this.” He said, a wayward thought. 

“Fucking fag- oh-” Max’s eyes slammed shut as his mouth hung open. Ian couldn’t decide whether to look at Max’s contorting face or the way his ass seemed to lure him further inside. He settled for watching every inch of himself push further in, listening to the delicious sounds the Australian made - these long, low whines and these aborted little gasps that Ian wanted to hear on repeat for hours. He sped up when he thought Max could take it - and boy could he. Ian heard the bed creak louder and louder but he couldn’t muster too much care about it. All his emotions were being poured into the way he fucked into the soft, warm body of Max. 

Max gripped Ian’s shoulders with both his hands. “Wanna ride you,” he mumbled, making direct eye contact. 

“Fuck,” said Ian, eloquent as always, and pulled out of Max (cue another lewd sound) to scoot up on the bed and lay on his back. Max straddled him, his cute thighs encasing him, and reached around to guide Ian back inside. Ian honestly had a hard time not thrusting all the way in immediately but managed to hold back until Max’s ass was comfortably sitting on his upper thighs, his cock brushing Ian’s stomach. 

Max held the headboard of Ian’s bed with one hand and splayed the other on Ian’s chest. Then, he started to move. They were small movements at first, rabbiting up against Ian’s cock. Ian went to hold Max’s hips, guide him to a quicker pace, when Max slapped his hands away. 

“I know what I’m doing, cunt.” He said, but there was a smile. So Ian let himself be helpless again, let Max do what he wanted. 

As he gained confidence, Max moved easier, slicker, smoother, in the way that had Ian’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. His weight on top of Ian was perfect, the ideal balance he was looking for. Soon, Max had Ian jostling the bed again, making obscene creaks whenever either of them moved. They lost any semblance of rhythm they started with, and Ian’s breath came short, red cheeks and eyes glued to the boy on his cock. 

“Max, I- I’m gonna come again,” Ian warned, letting his fingers tangle in Max’s hair - it was just as good as he dreamt it would be. 

“No, I get to first,” Max said, nearly a command, and grabbed Ian’s hand to place it not too delicately on Max’s own cock. Ian gathered the precum on the tip before wanking him off the best he could as he continued to get his brain fucked out of him. Max’s movements got faster and faster, his face flushing. Ian wanted to take a photo for posterity - he mapped Max’s features into his mind. Max’s thighs, his stomach, his chest, his berry lips, his screwed-shut eyes and his hair, which bounced around wildly. 

“Fuck, Ian -” Max puffed out between hard breaths. “Do it harder. Do it- shit-” He came with a stutter of his hips and with cum streaming over Ian’s fist, his mouth wide open. Ian stopped moving, waiting for Max to clamber off him claiming he was too tired, but he didn’t. “Keep going,” Max said, looking him dead in the eyes. He brought Ian’s hands to his hip bones and let him guide him - push him, pull him, any way he wanted him. 

To say the power trip did something for Ian was an understatement. He loved the way Max’s used ass tightened around him, the way he whined, oversensitive. 

“Ah, fuck -” Ian cursed, his head going foggy. “Max, Max, Max-” 

Ian came, shuddering, inside of Max, who just smiled down at him like he was proud. Max just sat there for a silent moment, before getting off of Ian and making the worst (best) sound yet. He collapsed, numb, onto the bed next to the American. 

“One of us needs to go and get a washcloth,” Max said after a minute. “Shottie not.”

“Fuck you,” Ian said, his voice full of love. He pushed himself up on his elbows and after locating a pair of boxers that may or may not have been his, he put them on and left the room, sure to close the door behind him. 

He heard Amen by Rich Brian coming from a tinny speaker near the kitchen, which was never a good sign. He tried to sneak past but was caught. 

“Hey, loverboy,” Joji sneered from behind a cigarette because he’s a cunt. “You having a good night?”

“I’ll fucking kill you if you say anything else,” Ian said, completely serious. “Where are the washcloths? Tissues?” 

“Where they always are, faggot. On the shelf.” Joji helpfully supplied, and got a box down.

“Thanks,” Ian bitterly accepted them. “Where were you earlier?” 

Joji shrugged. “I was out buying bread and I heard you boys as soon as I got in-” Ian cringed. Were they that loud? (Yeah, they were) “Good show, gotta say.”

“Don’t you dare jerk off to us.” 

“Well, it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” Joji smirked, and Ian kicked him. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “But I have a really cute boy in my bed I have to attend to, please honour my request to leave me the fuck alone until at least 2 pm tomorrow. We good?”

Joji saluted him. “Good on you, man. Honest. I’m happy you’re happy.”

Ian smiled a bit, just to himself. “Yeah, I am too.” 

“IAN, YOU RETARD, COME BACK HERE OR YOU’RE GONNA BE CLEANING FUCKEN’ STAINS OUT FOR WEEKS.” came a shout from down the hallway, and Ian felt a surge of love. 

And worry for his duvet. 

 

The end.


	12. epilogue - 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> & they all lived happily every after or sum gay shit idk 
> 
> hope u liked this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i forgot i had an epilogue written oopsie  
> just wanted 2 pop back in and let ya'll know that i'm super duper thankful for the support this has gotten, i was seriously expecting like maybe 1 person to comment a meme and that be the end of it. maybe i'll do another fic? idk   
> @baebel edited the majority of this and was there with me the whole time, i love her 2 pieces, she's writing a joji/max fic rn and to my knowledge she's got sum other fandoms on the go as well, so please check her out n support her 
> 
> muCHHHHH love   
> jojiberries
> 
> get it it's a play on goji berries  
> fucken love goji berries dude

Ian smiled goofily to himself as Dr. Siobhan checked his blood pressure. 

“You seem in a better mood, Mr. Carter.” The doctor remarked, jotting down the results. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” 

Dr. Siobhan settled back in here chair in her survey position. “Have you been sleeping well?”

Ian thought of Max cuddling him last night, “Yes.”

“Eating well?”

Max made an incredible breakfast - bacon, eggs, brewed coffee (not that instant crap Joji drank), everything. “Yes.”

Dr. Siobhan pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “Now all that’s in order, any news on the stress headaches? I take it you went to the yoga class.”

Ian grinned, a stupid lopsided grin he’d picked up from Max. He thought for a good few moments on how to phrase it: he was doing the best he’d done… ever. The last time he felt even near to this content was right before his sexuality induced breakdown on his 19th birthday, which fueled the overall incredible decision to fuck his sad housemate in a Brooklyn divebar. Ian had had lows, that was for sure, and he’ll have them again, but right now his life was heading up in slow but sure increments. 

He hadn’t noticed he’d drifted off until the doctor cleared her throat. “Well?” She pressed. 

“One thing’s for sure,” Ian said, “I can perform a perfect downward-facing dog.”


End file.
